Scene Stealer (16 page)

The ghost light stood, unscathed, despite the fallen debris. It cast its faint light on the ruined stage; littered with cables, pipes, clamps, and broken glass that crunched to fine particles beneath our shoes.

“Did you hear that, Miss Weidenmaier?” Annalise had looked up from Mr Dunn. She bit another nail. Nerves had finally taken hold of the poor child. Creaks and groans, some imagined, made me dart glances in every corner. All I could see were footprints in the sand strewn on stage by the burst sandbags.

What was left of the structured framework of parallel beams dangled, precariously, above our heads; one of the beams had fallen on Lawrence Dunn's leg. The task of lifting the beam necessitated immediate action. The first-aid course I had taken when I volunteered my services at the hospital led me to believe the leg had been crushed by the beam's weight.

To the accompaniment of fragmented soliloquies muttered by a semi-conscious Dunn, Annalise and I struggled without success; we hadn't the strength to budge the heavy metal.

“We must get help,” I said. “There's a phone in the lobby.”

“It's not working. Larry never got around to paying the bill.” Annalise's face turned lobster-red. “Do you have a cell?”

“No, dear. My generation isn't into such technology.”

Dunn regained his senses. “There is a cell phone in my pocket.”

The cell phone was no longer in his pocket. It lay smashed to pieces next to him.

He eyed a pipe swaying above our heads. “Take heed. The Sword of Damocles dangles by a hair. This was a rash and foolhardy adventure. Go! Leave me to my fate.” Dunn's tapered fingers fluttered toward his forehead. “Goodnight, sweet prince. And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest!”

Sepulchral sounds rose from beneath the floorboards. I picked up a slab of wood and prepared to strike; my adrenal glands at the ready. From the left wing a dirty-faced, ragged Kevin materialized.

“Mr. Dunn? Mr. Dunn? Are you dead?”

“Oh, Kevin,” I said and hugged the boy.

“I'm all right.” Kevin wriggled out of my arms. “What about Mr. Dunn?”

I knelt beside the actor, who had passed out again, and touched the pulse point on the inside of his wrist. The rhythmical throbbing was strong and regular. Lawrence Dunn would live.

“Where's my daddy?” Kevin asked.

“Your father?” Of course, the child wanted his father.

“He's here,” Kevin said. “My dad came to rescue me.” He jumped off the stage and darted up the aisle.

“Kevin! Wait!” Felicity was out there, I thought. The center steps leading to the stage were still in place. I gripped the piece of wood and ran down them after the child.

“Daddy! Wake up, Daddy!” Kevin had thrown his small body over that of the man who lay in the lobby.

I searched for the man's wrist. This time there was no pulse. Kevin's father would never wake again.

“Kevin.” I placed my hands on his thin shoulders.

“I want my daddy,” he said. “Why doesn't he wake up? He's dead isn't he?” The child could read the answer in my eyes.

A tremor ran through his body. I tried to hold him but he pulled away and ran back into the theatre.

I followed. For a moment he disappeared from sight and I stood motionless, at the top of the aisle, not knowing what to do. I detected a stifled sob; I turned in time to see the sole of a sneaker disappear as he climbed over the top of the ladder that led to the old choir loft.

The loft was high, far above the floor of the church. It seemed that way to me, a supposedly intelligent woman with a ridiculous fear of heights. If I tried to climb its narrow rungs, I knew I would fall. Immobile, in a state of near paralysis, I stared at the ladder.

Perspiration soaked my blouse. The loft appeared to sway. Black puffs hovered, clouding my sight, icy fingers of fear danced up and down my spine.

“This will never do,” I murmured. I took a deep breath, and then mounted the ladder; placing one shoe upon each slender, metal rung, then lifting the other to join the first. I climbed slowly, gripping the sides of the ladder, the metal biting my hands.

“One step at a time. Concentrate. Don't look down. Don't look down,” I repeated, ashamed of this debilitating fear.

My hands were sticky with blood. My tight grasp had led to ugly cuts. I couldn't think about them now. I reached the last rung and managed to climb over the bar.

The child was unaware of my presence. I hesitated, unable to think of the right words, any words.

I moved closer to the boy, hardly able to restrain my own feelings. How could I help a child who had just lost his father? And to lose him like this, to find his father's body…

Sobs blocked Kevin's words, choked his speech. “It's all my fault,” he managed to say. “He died because of me.”

“Where's the old lady?” Felicity's voice carried to the balcony.

Kevin shoved one small fist into his mouth, silencing his tears. We ducked down and were hidden from her sight by the lights positioned along the balcony rail.

“Where are they?” Felicity demanded. She had retrieved her gun and it was pointed at Annalise.

“Who?”

“Don't fool with me. Weidenmaier and the kid,” Felicity said and cocked the gun. “You're wasting my time.”

Lawrence Dunn half rose from his prone position, the movement clearly costing him. “Remorseless, treacherous, lecherous, kindles villain! O, vengeance!”

He clutched a handful of sand and threw it with amazing accuracy, considering his physical state, in Felicity's face. The gun discharged. Another pipe plunged to the floor accompanied by swirls of dust and dirt that obscured the players onstage.

When the dust finally settled, Annalise, her flaming red hair and freckled face now powdered a dirty gray, was still standing as if rooted to the deck. Lawrence Dunn had returned to his prone position. A piece of muslin drifted downstage. Felicity recovered first and picked up the gun again.

My hand brushed against the cold iron clamp of the spotlight. Somehow I found the strength to focus the lamp on Felicity.

“You wicked woman,” Kevin shouted. “You killed my father.”

Felicity turned and stared at the balcony. I threw the switch and Felicity stood, caught in the spotlight's cold, white glare, blinded.

“We've got her,” Kevin said. “We've got her.”

The sound of doors crashing, loud, rough voices; we watched as policemen rushed down the aisles and leapt to the stage like Keystone Kops ready for a chase. The most impressive ordered one of his subordinates to get an ambulance, then strode to the foot of the stage and bellowed; directing the bull-like sound toward the balcony.

“Miss Weidenmaier, is that you up there?”

“Yes, indeed. Lieutenant Brown? How very nice to see you again. Your timing could not be more propitious.”

“I would appreciate your coming down now. I believe we're capable of handling the rest of this mess.”

“I had planned to call, Lieutenant, but unfortunately, I was detained and I was unable to reach a working phone.”

Lieutenant Brown jumped from the stage and headed up the aisle.

Kevin scampered down the ladder. I placed a tentative foot on the top rung, then froze.

“Miss Weidenmaier?”

My lower extremities failed. I tried to marshal my strength in order to answer the lieutenant but felt a trifle light-headed.

The upper half of Lieutenant Brown's body appeared over the top of the rail.

“May I offer you a hand, Miss Weidenmaier?”

“Your assistance would be appreciated, Lieutenant.”

“The police department is happy to oblige, ma'am.”

With the lieutenant leading the way, I managed to descend the ladder, resisting an insane urge to kiss the floor beneath my feet. Terra firma, at last.

On stage, attendants transferred Lawrence Dunn to a stretcher. I could see a flicker of hope in the way Kevin turned and ran back to the lobby.

“Come with me, Miss Weidenmaier.” Lieutenant Brown took my hand and led me over to where Kevin stood, his little body a picture of despair.

“Your dad would be very proud of you.” The lieutenant tried to comfort the boy. “He was a hero and so are you.”

“I don't want to be a hero. I just want my daddy.”

“Kevin,” I said. “Let's go see your mother. She needs you. She loves you very much.”

“How am I going to tell her?” the boy asked.

Neither the lieutenant nor I could answer the child.

“Make-up,” the director called. “Gussie needs to be powdered. Her face is glowing.”

No wonder, I thought. A day spent working under hot lights in a television studio would make anyone melt. I was taping a commercial for a cereal, guaranteed to be both tasty and nutritious. The nutrition came from added essential vitamins, minerals and complex carbohydrates. The taste was contributed by sugar, honey, corn syrup and bits of dried fruit.

Abner T. Bean now represented me in all negotiations of a theatrical nature. I was not at all sure how he had managed to talk me into it, but we had signed a contract and since I had landed a principal role in a Screen Actors Guild commercial, I would become a bonafide member of SAG within fifteen days.

This season, it seemed, advertising executives were looking for “schoolteacher types” to promote everything from detergents to automobiles. Mr. Bean took advantage of the trend, and I certainly enjoyed both the activity and the remuneration.

“Fab-u-lous, Gussie,” the director said. “That was terrific! Let's try it one more time for good luck. Show us how much you enjoy it. Give me that healthy look. A big, wide smile; eyes and teeth! Eyes and teeth!”

 

After ten bowls of the mushy grains, I never wanted to see, smell or sample another spoonful again. Some worthy charity would be the recipient of the year's supply presented to me as a bonus. I longed to soak my feet, brush my teeth, enjoy a simple supper of canned tomato soup, crackers, American cheese, and tea and settle in for an overdue reread of
Julius Caesar.

In the aftermath of poor Kevin's abduction, Lawrence Dunn had been committed to an upstate facility for the mentally disturbed. His therapy included directing a theatre group composed of fellow inmates devoted to the works of William Shakespeare. The last time I paid my former captor a visit, one inmate insisted he was Shakespeare only to be challenged by another poor soul who claimed he was Francis Bacon. Bacon continually accused Shakespeare of stealing the credit for his classic works. Dunn's first production would be the aforementioned Caesar, the starring role played, of course, by Lawrence Dunn himself. I had promised to attend the dress rehearsal and bring a bald-pated skullcap to cover my erstwhile captor's flourishing head of hair.

Five minutes before the technical director of the commercial called, “It's a wrap,” a term I quickly learned was used to denote the completion of a scene, Mr. Bean arrived at the television studio. Now that I was in “the business,” we spent a good deal of time together.

I could see him in the back of the studio, nodding approval. The minute we finished the shoot he made his way to my side, stepping nimbly over the electric cables that snaked across the floor. Mr. Bean often told me tales of days spent dancing in vaudeville before it met its untimely demise. For a man long past his middle years, Abner T. Bean possessed an extraordinary energy level.

“Miss Weidenmaier.” Mr. Bean bestowed his most cherubic smile upon me. “That was excellent. If the immortal Eleonora Duse had ever appeared in a cereal commercial it would have been no more enchanting than your enactment.”

I had to smile. What was the man up to? Duse, indeed. One would have thought he had been the one working under the hot lights. Surely the paltry commission he earned as my representative didn't necessitate such flattery.

“Miss Weidenmaier,” Mr. Bean continued. “You must be tired but don't forget we're going to see Kevin in his Broadway debut tonight. I have managed to get excellent orchestra seats. I hope you'll enjoy our dinner before the performance after—” Mr. Bean looked around and lowered his voice, “after eating all those bowls of cereal.”

I did look forward to seeing Kevin, despite my exhaustion; I promised myself I would sleep in the rest of the week.

 

Mr. Bean arrived promptly at six o'clock, bearing a corsage of orchids. The enclosed card was signed “Fondly, Abner.” Was I being wooed? Ridiculous. I hadn't been wooed in years.

We dined at Sardi's—the restaurant where celebrities enjoy a bite to eat surrounded by caricatures of their fellow thespians. Mr. Bean mentioned that I had been honored with a front table; the better to see and be seen. We were presented with the actor's menu. By the time a tourist asked for my autograph—the lady remembered my bit in a rye bread commercial—I felt a bit giddy.

The first act of Kevin's play proved a delight. Mr. Bean (Abner—he asked me to call him Abner), and I found ourselves engrossed in the play. Kevin's sense of timing, I thought amazing. The audience embraced his character. He was young but I realized the work helped the child cope with the pain of losing his father. If anyone could fully recover from such a thing, Kevin would.

At intermission, we joined members of the audience crowding the lobby; it buzzed with voices. Abner and I shamelessly eavesdropped, the comments we managed to overhear were laudatory. Abner's eyes twinkled, he was so pleased. We made our way to the bar with just enough time for a refreshing soft drink before the lights flashed, signaling the beginning of the second act.

The house lights dimmed. The audience hushed. The curtain rose. There was no hint of trouble until a character, not seen earlier in the play, strode center stage. The house lights were turned back on.

“Abner,” I asked. “Is this going to turn out to be another of those avant-garde plays?”

The “character” turned out to be the producer of the production.

“Ladies and gentlemen, we have some technical difficulties and would appreciate your leaving the theatre while we make some adjustments. We hope to begin the second act again as soon as possible.”

We joined the grumbling, restless crowd on the sidewalk, outside the box-office, in time to see several police cars, sirens wailing, draw up to the theatre. The audience was now joined by a rush of passers-by who added to the noise and confusion. A van, marked Bomb-Squad, followed the police cars. Technical difficulties, I thought. Not likely!

“Kevin!” We looked at each other.

“Where is the stage door, Abner?”

Lieutenant Brown stood at the top of the alley leading to the door.

“Miss Weidenmaier?”

“How nice to be remembered, Lieutenant. We were just going to find Kevin.”

“Kevin is waiting at the other exit, Miss Weidenmaier. He's perfectly fine.”

“A bomb threat, Lieutenant? Who would do such a dastardly thing?”

“We didn't say there was a bomb threat, Miss Weidenmaier.”

“Why is the bomb squad here?”

“Just a precaution. I'm sure it's just another unhappy actor who didn't get a part.”

“I've had a good deal of experience with unhappy actors, as you well know, Lieutenant Brown. This is Kevin's play and I'm devoted to him.”

Lieutenant Brown called Sergeant Harris. “Sergeant, you remember Miss Weidenmaier.” His tone of voice was a trifle testy. “Please escort her around the block. She would like to see Kevin.”

“As long as the child is safe, Lieutenant, I would rather know what exactly is going on.”

“Augusta,” Mr. Bean said, using my given name for the first time in public, “I think we should let the lieutenant get on with his job.”

“Nonsense, Abner,” I said. “The lieutenant and I work very well together. And now that I'm ‘of the theatre,' I'm sure my services will be most useful.”

I turned to Lieutenant Brown. “Who, what, when, where, why? Shall we start with the who?”